


aftershocks

by imagines



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: ...not the way you think..., Bad Pickup Lines, Bottom Shiro, Caretaking, Dirty Talk, Explicit Consent, Fluffy Smut, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Series, Size Kink, catching feelings, past allurance, past sheith, reassurance, slightly drunk hookup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-04 15:26:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12773919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagines/pseuds/imagines
Summary: It’s been years since their feet hit the ground on planet Earth. The threads linking them are stretched now to the point of breaking. [Traveling on Garrison business, Shiro runs into Lance. They do some catching up. And some other things.]





	aftershocks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [@azaras-spirit](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=%40azaras-spirit).



> [@azaras-spirit](http://azaras-spirit.tumblr.com) requested shance with dancer!Lance seducing Shiro. So I thought, hey, aerial silks is kinda like dancing! Then I went and wrote about 3x as much as I thought I would. …I got excited.

It’s been years since their feet hit the ground on planet Earth. They’d said their goodbyes and scattered themselves across the globe, no mystical glue remaining to fix them at each other’s sides. Shiro skypes Keith every week; as for the rest of them, all he knows, he gleans from occasional scrawled greeting cards. (Hunk tucked a photo of his new baby into the Christmas card he sent Shiro last winter, and Shiro slipped it into his wallet and still hasn’t taken it out.)

The threads linking them are stretched now to the point of breaking—but Shiro sends them cards, too, trying to delay the inevitable snap-recoil-sting when the last of the bond disintegrates.

This week, he’s in California on Garrison orders, recruiting for a satellite academy they’ve just opened outside Ventura. After a couple of days he’s sick of microwave meals, and his hotel room has a kitchenette, so he decides to investigate a nearby grocery store.

He’s wandering past the tangerines and lemons when he notices the guy. Excessively tall, lanky as a racehorse, standing by a display of odd tropical fruits with his back to Shiro. Then he turns, and Shiro gets a glimpse of his profile.

Holy shit.

He forgets his cart, leaving it in the middle of an aisle, almost running across the produce section. If he’s wrong, it’ll be embarrassing, but—

He’s not wrong. “Hey, man!” says Lance, grinning down at him. _Way_ down—Shiro’s gotta tilt his head back just to make eye contact. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Shiro’s racking his brain, thinking back to the last time Lance had emailed him. When had that even been? “I’m just here for work. I thought you were still up north or I’d have gotten ahold of you.”

“All work and no play, huh? You haven’t changed a bit.” Lance throws in a wink, because Lance also hasn’t changed a bit. “And I move around. SoCal’s better for my line of work, so I plan to stay awhile.”

“I play,” Shiro mutters. “Just. Not now. Busy. You know.” He clears his throat, praying for eloquence to return to him. His prayer goes unanswered. What is wrong with him? _Focus_ , he orders himself. Lance is holding a coconut, and Shiro is just here to buy anything that didn’t come wrapped in plastic with instructions to heat for two minutes on high. This isn’t some class reunion scene where everyone’s sizing up everyone else, deciding who got hot and who got…not. “You ever hear from the others?” There, good topic, get Lance talking about himself while Shiro clears his mind.

For the record, Lance isn’t having any issues in the looks department, not that Shiro is actively noticing. Or anything.

“Pidge texts me sometimes.” Lance frowns, examining his coconut. “That’s about it, really. I mean, we’ve all got stuff going on, I don’t expect…” He shrugs, as if the completion of his sentence isn’t a high priority.

There’s something in Lance’s voice Shiro remembers. Something he’d always hated hearing and wanted to soothe away. They’d all been so close that the bond had seemed permanent, and no one had noticed the need for maintenance until it was too late. “I’m sorry I haven’t stayed in touch—I really am,” he emphasizes, when Lance’s eyebrows start doing that _yeah, yeah, nice words_ thing. “Missed ya, sharpshooter.”

Lance almost drops his coconut. “I. Uh. Missed you too.” Gently, he replaces the coconut among its brethren. “Too annoying to deal with,” he explains. “You know, like me.—It’s a _joke_ , Shiro.”

Shiro can’t seem to laugh. “You still think that?”

“This isn’t really…” Lance gestures at the milling customers. “Listen, if you wanna do that thing you do, come to my show tonight.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and withdraws a small, bright blue piece of paper, which he presses into Shiro’s hand. “We can get food after. Or drinks. Whatever you want. You can ask me that kind of stuff then.”

Shiro examines the little flyer. In big, bold letters, it advertises **MADAME BRIONY’S VARIETY SHOW—DOZENS OF DAZZLING DELIGHTS!!** And then there’s a list of the apparent delights: juggling, fire-eating, burlesque, magic, **AND MORE!!** yells the flyer. Somehow, despite the vast difference between piloting a lion and performing some kind of modern vaudeville act, Shiro isn’t surprised. The Voltron Show was…memorable, after all. “What thing I do?”

“You know—getting us to talk about our fears. Telling us our feelings are okay. _That_ thing.”

“Ahh,” Shiro says, already resolving to do exactly That Thing. “Well, I’m free tonight, so I guess I’ll see you there.”

* * *

The address on the flyer takes Shiro to a huge old warehouse. The girl at the door hands him a plastic cup of white wine and instructs him to sit anywhere he wants.

Inside, there’s a theater painted all black—floors, walls, and ceiling. Even the curtains at the back of the stage are made of velvety black fabric. Shiro picks a chair in the second row back, off to one side. Doesn’t seem right to look too eager, but he doesn’t want to look like he’s hiding, either. Lance hadn’t said which act was his, so Shiro sits back to wait and wonder, enjoying his wine and the feats of human strength, beauty, and general weirdness.

Then they drop a long piece of red fabric from some rigging in the ceiling, and Lance walks out in blue jeans and a black T-shirt. He toes off his shoes, pulls the shirt over his head, and—Shiro barely stops himself from covering his eyes, because there go the jeans too. All that’s left are Lance’s sly grin, raised eyebrow, and what looks like little white boxer briefs—which is probably sensible, right? Less…friction? Or something? This isn’t Shiro’s usual scene; he can only assume.

He spends the next five minutes silently dying, unable to look away while Lance dances on air and finds every single one of Shiro’s weak spots. The feeling welling up in Shiro’s chest traps him somewhere between ardor and sorrow. _This isn’t about you_ , Shiro reminds himself, tucking his hands under his thighs. He digs his nails into his legs. It doesn’t help, not when Lance balances in a split and definitely not when he executes a crucifix hold.

Lance finds him after the lights come back up. “You still wanna chill?” There’s a smudge of silver glitter at the corner of his left eye, but he’s dressed again, in the same kind of clothes he always used to wear.

Not much has changed. Except now Shiro has learned the lines of his bare shoulders and the curve of his spine, and the new information flares in him like a match lighting.

Some guy—the fire-eater, Shiro thinks—swoops in to kiss Lance’s cheek. “See you next week, babe,” he says, and Lance answers with a “Hell yeah!” and Shiro very carefully doesn’t react in the slightest.

“Yeah, let’s hang out. Where do you want to go?” Let them flip their old world tonight. Lance can lead; Shiro will follow.

Lance takes them to a tiny bar tucked between a vintage clothing store and a nail salon. “We’re having the garlic knots,” he informs Shiro. “And—what _do_ you like to drink?”

“Get whatever goes with garlic knots. I trust you.”

Lance grins. “You bet. I got your six in space _and_ on Earth.”

“So,” Shiro says, once they’re sated and chatting comfortably. “How’ve you been since we got back?”

“Eh, it took some adjusting. Relearning how to live without big-ass fuzzy purple aliens hunting you all the time. Do you ever…have dreams?” Lance doesn’t look at Shiro when he says it—offhand, like it’s not all that important.

Shiro knows better. “Yes. Often.” And it’s better to be blunt. “Are you seeing anyone about it?”

Lance rubs the bridge of his nose, getting twitchy. They’re prodding too near a wound that hasn’t closed. “Did you do that?”

“What, therapy? Of course. Still do.”

“It helps?”

“In some ways.”

Lance stares at the table for a long moment, then appears to makes a silent decision and nods to himself. His shoulders relax, and he looks up at Shiro again. “Talk to Keith much?”

It’s an abrupt shift, but Shiro goes with it, letting Lance pick his comfort zone. “Pretty often. He’s out in Kansas running a martial arts academy. Turns out Galra fighting style is all kinds of popular.”

“Huh. Kinda surprised you two didn’t—um, not that I assumed or anything—what I mean is, I—”

“Lance.” Shiro’s laughing softly. “It’s okay. You didn’t misread it. We did try, just didn’t work the way we wanted.” Edges too jagged, after everything. For awhile they fit themselves together like wrong puzzle pieces, afraid of losing each other, until the understanding struck them that if they wanted to stay in the same picture, they’d have to separate. Maybe, without Kerberos—but it doesn’t help to wonder.

“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to make you talk about it.”

“It’s in the past.” Glossing over the past’s way of haunting a person. “What about you? You and that guy—?” Shiro raises his eyebrows. “That other performer?”

“Nah, he’s happily married. I’m going it alone for now. Finding myself. Whatever.” Lance sighs. “I still miss her. Is that weird?”

Long distance hadn’t worked out so well, when it meant the lightyears between Lance and some other galaxy where Allura was working to establish a colony. “It’s not weird. You care about her.”

“Thanks, Shiro. For that thing you do, for coming out tonight…just, thanks.”

“Any time.”

After a beat, Lance scraps his chair back. “I don’t know about you, but I’m wiped out. Wanna get going?”

They split the bill and walk outside into the warm night. Shiro’s trying to figure out if this is a hug-goodbye or wave-goodbye kind of situation, when: “Hey, uh.” Lance pokes at a crack in the sidewalk with the toe of his shoe. “How long you in town for?”

“Another week.”

“This was good, catching up. I really want—I’d like to see you again. My place? I’ll make dinner. Mom’s recipes.”

“Can’t miss that. How’s tomorrow night?”

“You got it. I’ll text you the address.”

* * *

Lance lives in a fourth-floor walk-up in a crumbling brick building. “Penthouse, baby,” he says, showing Shiro through the door. “No annoying neighbors above me. Living the dream.”

The ceilings of the “penthouse” slant low in unpredictable directions, and Shiro almost brains himself on one. Lance moves with grace, dodging every impending angle. He’s too tall for the space, yet he makes it look effortless. “Been here long?” Shiro asks.

“Coupla years. I know it’s small,” Lance admits, glancing around as if imagining Shiro’s opinion. “But it’s mine.”

“It’s really nice, Lance.” The kitchen’s barely larger than Shiro’s hotel room bathroom, but it’s spotless. Several pots and pans simmer away on the stove, smelling amazing, and Shiro’s mouth is already watering.

In the living room, there’s a single huge sofa draped in blankets, and a giant flatscreen with several gaming systems tucked away on shelves below it. Lace curtains flutter in the windows open to the west, rosed in sunset light. “My mom made those,” Lance says, pointing.

“How is she, anyway?” Shiro’s only met Lance’s mother a couple of times, but her smile could make anyone feel like they were home.

Lance takes a deep breath. “She passed away last year. In spring. She got to see her primroses bloom first, though. And it was at home. Cancer.”

“Shit. I’m so sorry.”

“At least I got a few more years with her before it happened, right?” The corner of Lance’s mouth twists; it’s not exactly a smile. He does not mention the time he lost by setting foot in the Blue Lion. He does not say if he thinks he would have lost her sooner if he hadn’t helped defeat the Galra.

Maybe, in some other universe, she died fleeing alien fire instead of in her own bed. Another thing not worth wondering about for long.

Lance flips through titles on the screen, settling finally on some kind of nature documentary about polar bears. “This okay? These days I kinda prefer the relaxing stuff.”

Shiro recently watched every available episode of a baking show. “It’s fine. Me too.”

They eat on the sofa, bowls balanced on their knees. At some point, Lance gets out a bottle of wine and two glasses. He clinks his glass with Shiro’s. “To a nomal fucking life, man.”

“To a normal fucking life.” The wine goes down easy. Even easier on the second glass.

Somehow, Lance ends up slanted up against Shiro, inescapable as a low-hanging ceiling. “You know, I always wished you’d notice me,” he says. “And now that I’ve got your attention, I don’t know what to do with it.”

“I noticed you.” Shiro breathes out, slowly, like a controlled sigh. There are jellyfish on the TV now, and soothing music accompanying the swirling rainbow of creatures. Low heat begins to glow within him, soft like firefly flickers. He’s becoming aware that he doesn’t just _not mind_ Lance leaning on him. He _likes_ it. Actively.

“Psht. Sure.” Lance rolls his eyes so hard Shiro’s worried he’ll sprain something. “You noticed Keith a hell of a lot more.”

“Okay, that’s…you’re not wrong, but you weren’t in second place or something. It wasn’t a competition. I saw you, Lance. You guys were my family. I saw all of you, I…loved all of you.”

“Family.” Lance’s breath is warm on his neck. “Family wasn’t exactly how I felt about you.”

“No?” Shiro asks, so soft he almost can’t hear himself.

“You were my hero. Made it hard to keep my cool around you.”

Hero? “Don’t know if I deserved that.”

“Sure you did. You deserved a lot more than you got. You deserve to get what you want sometimes.”

“So do you.” Lance is caressing the inside of his thigh now. It’s easy to let his legs fall open. “And you’re not annoying.”

Lance huffs a laugh, lips against his jaw. “I’m glad me hitting on you isn’t annoying.” His hand moves higher.

So that _is_ what he’s doing. “Thanks for the— _nnh_ —clarification.” Lance can almost definitely see how hard he is, but the fingers inching up his inseam don’t seem bothered.

“What do you want, Shiro?” Lance’s mouth is very close to Shiro’s. “Gonna let me give it to you?”

And Shiro just has to kiss him then.

It’s been years since their feet hit the ground on planet Earth, years since the last time their souls merged into one magical mechanical savior. He’d give anything for one more taste of that link.

 _This_ isn’t that, not even close. It’s in an entirely different universe. Lance’s soft little moans into Shiro’s mouth send a current zapping down through his chest and straight to his dick, and he can’t stop his hips jerking up. It makes Lance gasp. “ _Ohh_ god. You need it bad, don’t you? It’s just me,” he says, rubbing tiny circles at the very top of Shiro’s inner thigh. “You can tell me.”

But how to put it in words? “I want, I just want—” He can’t think what comes next.

Helpfully, Lance swings one leg over Shiro’s so he’s straddling Shiro’s lap.

He’s tall enough that Shiro’s eyes are level with his sternum. Shiro doesn’t remember the last time he felt _small_ , and it sets off a thunderclap inside his head. Which is even less conducive to thinking.

Lance leans down, speaking low in Shiro’s ear so he can’t miss a word. “Want me to take care of you?”

Part of Shiro’s mind resists that idea: _You’re the leader. It’s not your place to let go like that._ He finds himself nodding anyway. “Please,” he breathes, and Lance curls his hands around Shiro’s waist, sliding his fingertips just under the hem of Shiro’s T-shirt. But Lance has never seen him like this, never touched him like this. He’ll be unprepared for what he finds. “Wait—I have scars, I should—”

Just then Lance’s fingers hit the edge of Haggar’s blast—a hand-sized patch of numb, knotted tissue. Lance freezes, pulling in air through his teeth. "Is this okay with you?"

"With me?" What about with Lance? It's one thing to know there are pieces of Shiro carved away; another to touch the marks. The canyons gouged into him by blades and whips, the deserts of nerves barren of sensation, the fault lines and fissures—his body had not escaped the Galra Empire’s scorched-earth policy.

“I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

“I’m comfortable.” Shiro places his hands over Lance’s, rubbing his thumbs against Lance’s wrists. “You’re doing everything right.”

“I am, huh?” Lance is smirking, but there’s a strange brightness in his eyes and he’s blinking suspiciously quickly. Slowly, he slides his hands up Shiro’s sides, until Shiro’s shirt is bunched up under his arms and his torso is bare under that burning blue gaze. “I’m glad,” he continues, “because I really wanna do you right.” He tugs harder at Shiro’s shirt; Shiro raises his arms so Lance can remove it. Then he’s sliding off Shiro’s knees onto the floor and shouldering in between Shiro’s legs. “You have no idea”—he’s opening the zipper of Shiro’s jeans—“how bad I want to get my mouth on you right now. Can I do that for you, Shiro? Can I make you feel good?”

It’s funny that Shiro used to give all those splendid motivational speeches before battles. It’s funny, because right now he’s not sure he knows words anymore, and he has to settle for more nodding. He hopes it’s eloquent nodding, at least.

Lance pulls Shiro’s jeans and underwear down to his ankles, but Shiro’s tennis shoes stop his progress. “I got it,” he says, batting at Shiro’s hands when Shiro tries to bend down to help. “I’m taking care of you tonight, remember?” He lifts each of Shiro’s feet into his lap in turn, untying the laces and slipping off the shoes. “Socks on or off?”

“On,” Shiro answers, trying not to whimper and mostly succeeding. He kicks free of his pants, and Lance knocks them aside.

“Yeah, I don’t like being totally barefoot either. My toes get cold easy.” Lance shuffles forward on his knees, bracing his elbows on Shiro’s thighs. “And nobody likes me waking them up with my cold feet on their legs.”

Shiro thinks he might in fact like that, mainly the part about sleeping next to Lance, but Lance doesn’t give him much time to contemplate it.

“Look at you,” Lance breathes. He wraps one hand around Shiro, and Shiro makes a choked-off sound. Lance grins. “Mm, do that again. Louder.” Then he takes Shiro into his mouth; _makes_ him do it again, louder. He lifts Shiro’s legs over his shoulders and teases brazen fingers between Shiro’s cheeks, petting his hole until Shiro is squirming in his grasp. Lance pulls off, drawing deep, ragged breaths, but his fingers don’t stop moving, and Shiro can’t stop making noise. “Got a very important question for you, Shiro.”

“Yeah. What. What?” Shiro says, articulately.

Lance’s entire face contorts itself in a frantic attempt to hold back laughter. Shiro appreciates the effort, even if Lance’s voice shakes when he speaks. “Are you from outer space?” He gives a particularly enthusiastic rub to Shiro’s hole.

“Lance— _ahh_ _—_ ”

“‘Cause your ass is _out of this world_.”

“Dammit, Lance!”

“I like it when you say my name,” Lance purrs. “Say it again when you come, okay?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, gripping Shiro in his free hand and stroking him hard, relentless even when Shiro’s hips buck off the couch.

Once more Shiro surrenders to Lance’s command, gasping Lance’s name and making a complete and utter mess of himself.

“Beautiful,” Lance whispers, even though Shiro is speechless and panting and sweaty, and also kind of sticky now.

“Your ass is pretty great too,” Shiro tells Lance, going bright red at his own boldness. He doesn’t care. Lance should know that Shiro appreciates him for _many_ reasons.

“Your pickup lines need work,” Lance mutters, climbing back up on the couch. He lays them both down, curling close and wrapping his long limbs all around Shiro from behind. “Thanks, though. Next time _you_ can land a mission and do some close-up research.”

“Oh my god, stop.”

Lance pokes him in the ribs. “Wait, wait, I got one more. Ready?”

“I could never be ready,” Shiro groans. “Just get it over with.”

“Okay, okay. You must be made of dark matter,” Lance murmurs, nuzzling against the back of Shiro’s neck. “Because you’re indescribable.”

The slender strands that bind them together no longer seem so fragile. Delicate as spider silk, sure, but just as resilient. “I have to kiss you now,” Shiro tells him, turning in his arms. “It’s in the rules.”

He likes kissing Lance’s smile. He likes this feeling of absolute safety. He even likes Lance’s cold toes on his legs.

It’s been years since their feet hit the ground on planet Earth. Though the bond has faded, perhaps it’s not as weak as he’d thought. He should text Hunk, see when he might be free for a visit. He should call Pidge and send Keith a selfie. He’s gonna do all of that, in the morning, right after he gets some rest.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I've written shance and HECK, I LOVED IT.
> 
> Come say hi @ tumblr, where [you can find me](http://meimagino.tumblr.com) crying about voltron ships all day every day! (Mostly sheith, lbr. But I multiship. :p)


End file.
